Lethal Profit (10 page)

‘W
E
THINK
IT
'
S
A
GANG
EXECUTION.
'

Inspector Legrand of the Préfecture de Police frowned as his sergeant delivered this piece of news.

‘Really?,' he said, glancing down at the spot on the floor where the British victim had been found.

‘You think that was an execution?'

‘This estate is a notorious area for the Apaches, sir. This man was not local, he lived alone and, by all accounts, he was not particularly respected in this area. His neighbour said he was often on the receiving end of taunts and bullying.'

‘That's still not a motivation for murder.'

‘Sometimes the fact that someone is an outsider is all they need.'

Legrand looked at Gagnere.

‘I grew up around here, sir,' the junior policeman said in response to the look. ‘I was myself almost a victim of their violence as a teenager. If you find a corpse within several miles of these estates you can guarantee they are responsible.'

Legrand digested this less than impartial information.

He looked around the shabby flat where the dead man had been found. What a way to live. ‘Nevertheless I'm not sure we should write this case off as a simple execution until we know for sure.'

Gagnere nodded and then watched as Legrand walked over to the other side of the room and plucked a lone birthday card from the mantelpiece. ‘Happy Birthday Son.' He carefully replaced the card and turned to face Gagnere.

‘I wouldn't have thought suffocation was the Apaches' style, Gagnere. If that is indeed how that man died.'

The smaller policeman shifted on his feet.

‘Well, it's not – usually. But, like I said, murder and these gangs, they go together. I can start flicking through the profiles we have for possible suspects, sir – to make sure we get a head start on them.'

Legrand could see he had already charged and convicted someone in his head. But maybe he had a point. He decided to allow Gagnere to run with his theory – within reason.

‘Fine. But don't make contact with anyone until you have my say-so. And get forensics to take a good look at this place. There must be fingerprints here somewhere, a boot-print on the carpet, a hair on the floor. Most people cannot murder in cold blood, no matter how schooled they have been. It's an emotional business taking a life. And emotion makes people careless.'

‘Yes sir.'

‘When are we likely to see the preliminary autopsy report?'

‘Some time this afternoon.'

‘I want to know the minute it's ready.'

As soon as Eva had sent the message to Sophie she immediately felt better. Just taking some action – any action – was enough to shift that feeling of not being in control. She had taken care to compose a message that gave nothing away but would (hopefully) not cause Sophie to feel threatened. Once she had pressed ‘send' Eva shut her laptop. This time, she didn't hide it but left it resting on top of the bed. Carefully, she pulled out one of her own long, dark hairs and wrapped it over the front opening of the laptop. She tucked one end under the laptop between the machine and the bed and placed a book on top of the laptop with the hair underneath it so that it was stretched over the opening. The hair was completely invisible against the black laptop case and she would know immediately when she returned if it had been opened, even if the book was replaced on top. Checking the hair was still in place as she moved, Eva stood and walked over to the wardrobe. She selected a light-coloured blouse with a small round collar and a cheerful blue anchor print, put it on and buttoned it right to the neck, before tucking it into a pair of black jeans. The weather outside seemed bright, the sky blue, so she opted for a warm woollen military-style coat with bright gold buttons, rather than something more waterproof. Once she was ready to leave, Eva did one last sweep of the room, straightening corners and shutting doors. Then she picked up three of the papers she had selected from the ‘Sophie' pile and shoved them into her bag before heading out of the door.

Several streets over from her hotel Eva stopped for breakfast at one of the many tiny cafés in the area. From the outside these establishments seemed to be the French equivalent of a greasy spoon – watery coffee and tasteless food – but she was always pleasantly surprised to find that inside she could consume hypertension-strong, sweet coffee and the butteriest, flakiest of croissants for just small change. As she sat down at a small metal table, she felt the waistband of her jeans press slightly into the slight curve of her stomach and wondered whether she should lay off the croissants for a while, before concluding that now wasn't the time for dieting. As she drank her coffee in slow, short sips, Eva looked at the documents she had brought with her. Next to all the information that ran along the bottom displaying Sophie's name and the dates and times that she had printed the documents was the name of the company that Sophie presumably worked for – Bioavancement S.a.r.l. Eva had spent at least an hour searching the internet but had found no trace of this mysterious organisation. There was no company website, no hits on business networking pages, no news stories, no directories recording its address. Eva had searched UK Companies House website but Bioavancement S.a.r.l. had no UK subsidiary and she didn't know the French equivalent of Companies House. This in itself was puzzling to her. Everyone used the internet now – it was the primary source of marketing for many businesses and almost impossible for any company to escape even a mention of its name on a website or chatroom posted there by someone else. The only organisations that didn't have a public web face were those that didn't want the public to know they existed.

However, whilst the internet had proved to be barren ground for information on Bioavancement S.a.r.l., the papers in the sports bag had not and she had discovered that one of the printed-out Google maps showed a Paris location with the word ‘Bioavancement S.a.r.l.' scrawled next to it in black pen. The writing was Jackson's, without a doubt, and his unintelligible scrawl made it virtually illegible to anyone other than another person with an identical style of terrible handwriting. Once she had finished her breakfast, Eva packed the papers away deep in her bag, other than the map, which she stowed in the pocket of her jeans. She asked for a glass of water, which she finished in one go, and then she paid her bill and left. Outside, the sky was still a brilliant blue and the streets were quietening down as the post-rush-hour buzz began to fade away. Eva took her phone from her pocket and opened the maps app in which she had managed to find the Bioavancement S.a.r.l. address, thanks to a Métro stop and road names on the paper copy. The app showed that she was less than a mile away, just north of the location. She memorised the next three turnings she would have to take, pocketed the map and then set off south.

When Wiraj had heard nothing from the boys he had recruited to rob the young English woman of her phone, he had taken Tahir, Muhammad and Nijam and gone to look for them. The estate where the children hung around was across the road from the flat where they knew the dead English man had lived. When the four men went back there after a wintry darkness fell that afternoon, there was a police cordon around the flat where the execution had been carried out. Wiraj was acutely aware that he was breaking every rule in the book by coming back here. They could be identified at any minute by a neighbour or the crazy old man they had passed at the front door, but Wiraj had to find that phone. He hoped that under the cover of darkness, with their hoods and low-slung jeans making them look like all the other shadows moving stealthily around the dark housing estates, he and the others would not be identified. The four men took a side road away from the cordoned-off area and traversed the estate opposite looking for the kids. At the back of a long-abandoned children's playground, they saw the shadows of a group of five people smoking and taking long gasps of air from black plastic sacks. The men approached the group silently, so that they all jumped when Wiraj stepped out of the darkness and spoke.

‘You were supposed to contact me.'

The tallest boy turned in his seat on the asphalt and looked up at him steadily, meeting his gaze with darkly ringed eyes. ‘There was no point.'

‘I paid you to get me the phone.'

‘We did get it.'

‘I want it.'

‘We don't have it any more.'

Wiraj took a step forward. ‘Who did you sell it to?'

‘We didn't.'

‘Then where is it?'

The boy rose to his feet. He was as tall as Wiraj, although skinnier and not as broad.

‘I told you, we don't have it,' he said, aggression leaking into his voice.

‘Then give me my money back.'

‘No.' Silence fell between the two.

Wiraj regarded his opponents. These were not children, he thought steadily, forcing himself not to overreact. They had the angry, unpredictable air of damaged adults. Before he could complete his train of thought he realised that the boy opposite him was now holding a knife. It had a curved, serrated blade that caught the light as he moved it subtly from hand to hand. He looked at the boy who met his gaze blankly, continuing to move the knife just below Wiraj's eyeline. The two stood opposite each other; nobody moved. Neither party could anticipate the reaction of the other; both were on the defensive. After several minutes, there was a slight movement behind Wiraj and, as he turned, he saw that a gun had been drawn by one of the other kids, a small handgun that looked like a very old model Glock. The balance of power had shifted.

Wiraj felt Muhammad tense up behind him. The enormous rhino of a man could probably rip these children in two with his bare hands – unless they shot him first. He willed him to stay calm. They needed to get information. The boy in front of him took a step towards Wiraj. There was a narcotic glaze over his eyes. ‘We don't have your phone.'

‘Then give me back my money.'

‘Are you threatening me?' The kid swiped the knife at Wiraj, who recognised it as a feint and stayed absolutely still.

‘Give me my money back or give me the phone.' He repeated.

Suddenly the boy began to laugh and all the others joined in, creating a high-pitched, maniacal sound like a pack of hyenas. In the almost complete darkness, with the only light from a small fire on the ground where they were burning newspapers, it was an eerie scene. The boy with the gun moved so that he was standing next to Tahir and put the gun up against his right temple, apparently without any fear of reprisal. Tahir looked at Wiraj, who looked away. Once he had finished laughing, the first boy leaned in to Wiraj so that their faces were only a hand-breadth apart, the knife flashing in his hands only inches away from Wiraj's waist. He paused before he spoke, drawing out the tension of the situation.

‘You have an enemy, my friend.' Drops of spittle flecked Wiraj's face.

‘And he's way ahead of you.' He smiled a yellow-toothed, leering smile.

‘He came and took that phone; he knew exactly what he wanted. We told him all about you.' He smiled.

‘You're next,' he said, lifting two fingers of his free hand into the air to simulate the firing of a gun. As he did so Wiraj, with a skill and speed acquired from spending his life defending himself on the streets and slums of Khartoum, snatched the fingers wrapped around the knife and disembowelled the boy by his own hand. He moved quickly out of the way as the body fell forward, a stunned look on the boy's face as he briefly saw his entrails falling through his tracksuit in front of him to the floor. A split second later, Tahir brought a fist up into the face of the boy holding a gun and heard the satisfying crunch of a broken nose. The boy's gun hand flew up in reaction and Tahir punched him hard in the ribs and swiftly disarmed him before pushing him to the ground and stamping down hard on his head with the heavy sole of his thick boots. The boy didn't move. The other three boys recovered quickly and began to run, disappearing like wraiths into the shadows without a sound. Wiraj held his hand up to stop any pursuit. He pulled a small case from the inside of his coat and flicked it open, letting the shell drop to the floor as he withdrew a small syringe from inside. Then, calmly, he walked back over to the prone child that Tahir had felled and injected him in the thigh.

I
N
AN
AREA
IN
THE
FAR
WEST
OF
L
ONDON
, a new development had been fascinating the locals. The temporary structure had appeared on the site of a disused waterworks, a series of enormous plastic tents the size of several football pitches, underneath which there seemed to be some kind of construction taking place. Local residents had noticed lights and activity over three nights and had seen JCB diggers and workmen arriving during the day. There was a buzz about whether this was lottery money – a new project for the local community. Close to the muddy banks of the Thames in a forgotten area of old waterworks and abandoned land, they desperately needed some kind of regeneration. Those who thought about it realised they hadn't seen any planning permission notices, but it had only been three days and they assumed there would be an article in the paper by the weekend. The lorries that had been making deliveries were unmarked, other than a small acorn image on the back door, and the security around the site was tight. The residents had busy lives; three days went by in a blur of offices, school runs and evening meals. No one did anything.

Inside one of the tents, engineer Rob Gorben surveyed the results of the last three nights' work. Six large raceway ponds, so named because of their similarity to a racetrack, were set out before him. Each one was 1000 metres square, 35 centimetres deep, lined with cement and fitted with a motorised paddle at one end. The raceways were the most typical design for uncovered algae growing and he and his team had managed to set these six up in just three days, which was a record even for his efficient group. It had helped that they were starting on the site of an old waterworks but they had still had to demolish much of the existing structure and start again. They had been working through the night through the whole 72 hours and they had hit their incredibly tight schedule bang on time, which meant they'd be in for a sizeable bonus. All that was left now was to fill the ponds and implant the algae. Gorben shut down everything other than the security lights and went home to his family.